Yesterday Is History Read online

  “Andre!” Dad’s voice rings loudly from downstairs, breaking through the wooden barrier of Mom’s door. “There’s a boy at the door for you!”

  Twenty-Three

  Blake waits downstairs for me for ten minutes while I run into my room to finish dressing. A button-down shirt that plays well off my dark skin, a pair of skinny jeans, a spritz of cologne, and…

  “Boots or sneakers?” I ask Clyde. He looks up lazily, flicking his right ear.

  “Sneakers it is.”

  Downstairs, Blake, Mom, and Dad are sitting at the dining table. Blake went all out in a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a black vest, and nice jeans.

  “That’s a different outfit than you showed me,” I say. Mom clears her throat and Dad glares. “I mean, you look nice.”

  “You think?” Blake asks. He looks down at his boots—I’m glad that I didn’t select mine—and spins around once. “Thanks. I really wasn’t sure what to wear on a date—had a crisis of confidence at the last minute and thought I’d change it up. I knew I was going to have to keep up with you.”

  “Careful there, Dre,” Dad says. “This one’s a charmer. Guard your—”

  “Dad. That’s enough. We’re going.” I push Blake toward the door, intending to get him out of there as quickly as possible. But before we can cross the threshold, Dad grips my arm, squeezing.

  “I’ll meet you at the car,” I tell Blake, who catches on.

  Once Blake’s gone, Dad opens his mouth, but I cut him off.

  “I know what you’re going to say. Can we just skip—”

  “Nope,” he says, handing me my jean jacket from the door. “You know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “Dad.”

  “Don’t feel forced. This is just a boy. To quote Grey’s Anatomy, which is a god-awful example of hospital procedures—”

  “Please don’t. I’m begging you.”

  “He’s very dreamy, but he is not the sun.”

  “All right,” I say quickly and hug him. “I’m going. I’ll be home by curfew. Goodbye.”

  I push my way out and get into Blake’s car.

  “Drive. Quickly.”

  The zoo is on the other side of town, and since it’s Saturday, the streets are busy. It gives Blake and me time to talk, but for the first fifteen minutes, we both sit in silence.

  I’m the one who breaks it.

  “So, you were serious about the zoo, huh?”

  He glances over but never moves his hands from the ten-and-two position. “Yeah. Is that a problem? Thought it might be nice?”

  “Or cute?”

  He shrugs. “Both work, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  He shrugs again. “There’s a special late-night event. Seeing animals at night—I thought you’d like it. Don’t want to be too cocky. That’s not something you like in a guy, is it?”

  “You’d be surprised what I like in a guy. Want a hint?”

  “I’m not against playing video games on easy mode, so yes.”

  “You’re on the right track.”

  Blake grins, and I can’t help but grin back. There’s something different about this smile than others, nothing physically different… But this time?

  This smile makes it hard for me to breathe.

  “What else?” I ask.

  He glances over at me.

  “What else do you think I like in a guy?” I clarify.

  He shrugs, his eyes still looking forward. “A good person, I think.”

  “You think or you know?” I bite my lip. “Sorry. Thank you.”

  “You’re a person who doesn’t take compliments well.” He reaches over with his hand, squeezing my thigh. “Should we unpack that?”

  My body freezes and tenses up like petrified wood. Blake notices and moves to shift his hand away, but before he can, I put my hand on top of his.

  “I thought this was a date, not a therapy session.”

  Blake lets out his deep laugh, a baritone ripple filling the inside of the car. I like that sound. It’s deeper than Michael’s voice.

  “Touché,” he replies, and moves his hand back to the wheel.

  A part of me wishes he would put it back.

  “Is that what you want to be?” I ask. “A therapist?”

  Blake shrugs. The zoo comes into view on a hill in the distance, lights glittering. “Maybe?” he says.

  “That doesn’t sound confident.”

  “I’m not sure my father would support that.” He laughs. “Do you think a psychologist would bring honor to the McIntyre name?”

  In this moment, Michael’s words float back into my mind, along with the intention behind them. How we need to decide what type of person we want to be, without worrying about what our parents want. Without worrying about the expectations of the rest of the world. Maybe Blake and I really do have more in common than I thought. The concern that something you want to do doesn’t align with what your parents want resonates with me. Michael doesn’t have that concern. He’s bold, brave, and free-spirited, and he doesn’t take no for an answer. I’m envious of that. But, intrinsically, Blake understands me.

  I grin at Blake, reach over, and squeeze his leg in return. “I think you’d make a good psychologist. No, a great one.”

  A bright smile covers Blake’s face. A smile that dwarfs the lights from the zoo. It makes his eyes shine a bright green too.

  “And you’ll make a good…?”

  “Doctor,” I lie. For now, it’s easier, because I don’t have an answer to what I want to be yet.

  “Doctor.” Blake nods, finding a parking space. He turns off the car, the warm hum turning into a purr as we sit there in silence.

  “You ready to have a good night with me, Dr. Andre Cobb?” he asks, twirling his keys between his fingers. “I promise, if you give me a chance, I’ll give you the best night you can imagine.”

  “That sounds like a tall order.”

  “I appreciate a challenge; you know that,” he whispers. “And you’re worth making a fool of myself for.”

  I study his features, every etch on his face, every twitch of his eye, searching for any sort of lie. But there’s nothing. Only pure hope and positive intent.

  There’s nothing dark or sinister about Blake McIntyre.

  “All right,” I finally say. “But any snacks we get are on me. I can’t have you buying everything.”

  “Who knew Andre Cobb was such a knight in shining armor?”

  “Dre,” I correct him. “You can call me Dre.”

  Blake’s eyes beam brighter than I would’ve imagined possible at such a simple offer.

  “Dre it is.”

  * * *

  We spend over two hours at the zoo, and even with the crowded groups, overactive children, and sleepy animals, it’s a fun date. Blake knows more about animals than I would’ve expected any upper-class teenager to know, and he takes an extreme amount of interest in the lions, the last exhibit we see. He talks about them for almost three minutes straight.

  “Sorry,” Blake mutters. “I know I ramble when it comes to animals.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say, nudging him with my shoulder. He’s blushing, looking down at his feet the whole time. “It’s cute. Have you considered being a vet? Or a lion psychologist?”

  He looks up, with a puzzled look on his face that’s oddly adorable. He opens his mouth like he’s going to reply, but then he smiles. “Wait, that’s not a real thing, is it? Because it sounds like a freakin’ sweet—oh. You’re joking, aren’t you?”

  “And what gave that away, hmm?”

  He opens his mouth to say a quippy retort but winces, looking up. One raindrop turns into two, two into four, and like a stampede, everyone in the zoo goes running back to their cars. Luckily enough
for us, the lion exhibit is close to the exit, and we make it before getting completely soaked.

  “Here,” Blake says, reaching into the back and pulling out a towel. “Not sure how clean it is. It’s my post-practice towel, but…”

  “I’ll take it.” I rub myself down quickly, ignoring the smell of sweat and cologne that lingers on the fabric. And, if I’m honest, it doesn’t smell horrible. It smells like him, and that’s not the worst smell.

  I pass the towel to Blake, who dries himself in silence. Slowly, he strips off his shirt, revealing his chiseled abs and defined pecs—my breath hitches, again. Blake doesn’t seem to notice, and if he does, he’s doing a good job of playing it cool. He puts his shirt and jacket back on without a word. As an athlete, I’m sure he’s used to being shirtless around guys. This is nothing to him.

  It’s everything to me. Sure, it’s not the first time I’ve seen Blake McIntyre shirtless, but this time, it feels different. This time, we’re on a date.

  We sit in silence, listening to the heavy droplets of rainfall on the car windshield. Blake turns the heat on low, and the hissing and hum of the crackling heater are soothing.

  “I don’t expect us, you know, to just start dating,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence. “But I had a good time with you today.”

  I don’t need to hesitate with my answer. “I did too.”

  “And I’m just assuming, you know, correct me if I’m wrong, that since we both had a good time, we could maybe try to see if we can have another good time, and another, and if we do, maybe we can see what happens?”

  “Like in geometry, how it takes three points to verify a line?”

  He pauses and shakes his head. “You’re such a dork, but, like you said before, I’m growing to love it.” Blake shifts the car into reverse. “I should get you home. Don’t want your dad to hate me right off the bat.”

  “Oh, he already does. Don’t take it personally.”

  The joy seeps from Blake’s face like ink rushing out of a broken container.

  “Joking.” I smile. “If you’re going to hang with me, you have to get used to these jokes.”

  “Maybe you should make funnier jokes,” he scoffs and starts to back the car out, curling his spine around and putting his hand on the back of my seat. At least, that’s where his hand should be.

  Instead, it slips around my back and grips my right shoulder. He has a sly smile on his face the whole time, a smile he’s trying to hide by making his features twist into something normal.

  “You’re not slick, Blake McIntyre,” I say as his hand slips down and settles on my thigh.

  “I’m a little slick. You have to admit it.”

  I roll my eyes and turn on the radio, looking out the window. But, somewhere between ten and fifteen minutes into the silence after we leave the zoo, my hand slips down, and my fingers lace with his.

  Twenty-Four

  There’s something peaceful about holding Blake’s hand, stroking his knuckles with my fingers, and riding in silence as we listen to the radio.

  By the time we arrive at my house, it’s 10:50 p.m., giving us ten minutes to spare before my curfew.

  “Do you want to stay?” he asks, half a minute or so after we’ve stopped, as the engine cools. “I mean, you can go if you want. I’ll see you at my place for your training, but…”

  “Nah,” I reply, squeezing his hand. “I’ll stay.”

  “Because, you know, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

  “I want to.”

  The lights are on upstairs in my parents’ room, which faces the street. Mom’s car is still gone. I’m sure Isobel has been blowing up my phone, but she can wait.

  Right now, and it sounds so cheesy that it makes me sick, there’s only Blake and me. And that feels like how it should be.

  “You don’t find this weird?” I suddenly ask, still resting my head against the window.

  “Should I?”

  “I mean, I have your brother’s liver. That… Doesn’t that make us, in some weird way, related?”

  I can tell he’s thinking, letting the words roll over him.

  “I don’t think so. I think, as my dad says, it makes you part of the family, but not exactly family. You aren’t Dave… And I miss him.” Blake pauses and closes his eyes.

  “The zoo was his favorite place. Always was. Every birthday we would go there, even when he was in college. He still wanted to visit the zoo. So when I thought about where to take you, the zoo just came to mind first.” He opens his eyes and glances sideways at me.

  “I think…I didn’t take enough of my brother’s advice. Who does, really? We think we have so much time with the people we care for. But I admired him, you know? He had a lot of good ideas, and despite how easily things came to him, he never took that for granted. Dave was a good person, the best version of Mom and Dad. I…never told him, but I wanted to be like him. Not because he got Mom and Dad’s love or anything, but because he was the type of person you look up to. The one person you want to emulate.

  “And I miss him,” he says, almost a whisper. “I really freakin’ miss him.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen Blake show as much emotion as he does in that one simple sentence. I don’t think, deep down, that I thought he had…that much depth. But looking at him, seeing him actually try to fight tears as his eyes turn glossy? It softens any previous thoughts I had about him.

  Blake, deep down, is suffering like anyone who has lost of a loved one would. No matter how strong a facade he puts up.

  “Does that weird you out? That I took you on a date to a place my brother loved, and you have his liver, and I just spilled my guts to you like that?” He laughs, trying to lighten the moment.

  It probably should. I think for any sane, average person it would. But I’m not sure that I, Andre Cobb from Boston, Massachusetts, can call myself sane or normal anymore.

  “I think if he were here, he would have told you that it was a great date idea. And I would agree with him.”

  Blake grins and squeezes my hand again. “So what that means, I don’t know. It’s unprecedented, sure, but that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t take advantage of what we’ve been given?”

  “And what have we been given?” I ask, pushing off the window, looking at him.

  I don’t expect an answer—or maybe I do. Maybe I hope Blake will put this all together for me. The time travel. Him. The secrets. Michael. His parents. His mother’s “experiments.” My life is almost entirely different than it was six months ago. That should be a good thing. Change is good, in science, in life, in everything. I should be comfortable with the unknown. That, according to my parents, is where the best things happen.

  But right now, I just want someone to tell me what direction to take. What path to walk, which road to venture down.

  “I’d like to think we’ve been given a chance,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, like he’s not sure he believes it himself. “A chance to see what this is between us.”

  “You think there’s something?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Do I? This night was great; there’s no denying it. But every time I think back on it, on every spark of joy Blake gives me, I wonder, would that spark be a roaring flame if I were with Michael?

  “Are you out?” I ask. It’s a sharp left turn in the conversation but also a worthy distraction.

  He shakes his head. “I’m just not super out, you know? The right people know, and I let people know when I want them to know.”

  “Are your parents cool with it? I’d imagine having a gay kid when you’re members of Boston’s high society could be…”

  “My dad and I don’t talk about that,” he says quickly. “My mom and I do, but it’s like clockwork. The same three questions all the time: Am I being safe, am I having sex, is this just a phase?
” He chuckles, but I can tell it’s a forced laugh, to keep the space from being too quiet. To keep him from really confronting how much that hurts him. “They mean well, but… Well, you’ve met my parents.”

  I squeeze his hand this time. “Listen…”

  “We absolutely don’t need to talk about it, Dre,” he says gently but with a firm edge to it, making it clear where he stands on the topic. “I’m fine with it, really. College is soon. I’ll flourish there. It gets better and all that.”

  The clock reaches 10:55, and I see the shadow of Dad moving in the window. I sigh, giving his hand another squeeze.

  “Bonus. At least you got me home on time. My dad’s going to love you for that. I swear, sometimes I think he wishes he had a daughter.”

  Blake laughs and leans across my body as he looks out my window at my house. I can smell the faint scent of his cologne.

  He smells the best in this moment, the way the air smells right after a thunderstorm, while Michael smells of faint cologne and a light musk that comes from too many days focused on one thing and forgetting everything else. Blake is different from Michael, in so many ways, but not a bad type of different.

  Finally, he pulls back, but only enough so that our faces are close together.

  “Can I kiss you?” he whispers.

  I hesitate for a second, which turns into two, and then into five, and then ten. Far longer than anyone should pause when asked by a hot guy, whose voice is nothing more than a low, hungry whisper. But it’s not for the reason he thinks.

  It’s because the memory of Michael’s lips against my own feels as real as if it’s happening right here. Every smell, every touch, every thought that was going through my head with him in 1970 feels as real as if it were happening right now.

  Except it’s not. I’m not with Michael.

  I’m with Blake, and by the time I can process this, he has already pulled back, clearing his throat.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, clearing my throat too. “It’s not…”